I had drank...

I couldn't believe that I had drank that much and not taken a piss. We must have been on about our fourteenth beer apiece by the amount of empties in front of us and it appeared that the old geisha boy was ready to make his move. I had totally lost track of time and just where the hell I was. How many fucking episodes of Leave It To Beaver are there?

"I guess were doing OK," I babbled. Bobby responded by opening his mouth and barfing a geyser of beer and bad Mexican food all over the old queer. We both vaulted off of our stools and ran out the door screaming and laughing like hyenas and tore down the block until we found ourselves, like a vision from God, in front of the legendary Pussy Cat theatre. Deep Throat had played non-stop there for years. It was a double feature, the second show was called I Cream On Jeanne. I was hoping that Barbara Eden was really in it. She had been the subject of many of my stroke dreams. Thinking back, how in even my LSD addled mind did I think that Barbara Eden would be performing in a porno film? "I gotta see this flick," Bobby said, "I heard this chick Linda Lovelace can go down on a mule and not bat an eye."

After getting our tickets I went to take a leak while Bobby went to the concession stand. Like I'd eat anything that was sold in a porno theatre. The walls of the bathroom were covered with graffiti and with the phone numbers of men who either wanted me to call them so they could blow me or visa versa. "What in the hell is wrong with this goddamn town," I wondered as I pissed all over my shoes looking at all the amateur porno scrawled on the walls. The majority of them poorly done renditions of stick men with massive cocks, balls, and exposed assholes. If the theatre was showing just regular old porno flicks - guy on girl, girl on girl - why was all the graffiti homo related? Another question for the ages.

Bobby was waiting for me in the lobby, rocking from one foot to the other. He had bought a box of World War II era malted milk balls and was eating them with his mouth wide open. I had to swallow back my gag reflex. What a disgusting sight! The theatre was one of those old time places that had gone to shit and now showed only skin flicks around the clock. Fucking place must have held two thousand people at one time in it's glory years and now there were about fifteen in the whole joint. Me and Bobby, eleven single men, and two either really ugly women or two transvestites who were wildly making out.

I didn't give a shit though! Man, once I started to watch that Linda Lovelace, who was short in the tit department but fine in the ass and bush, get down with old Harry Reems, I was sporting a piece of wood that Rod Carew could have used to knock out a homer at the old Met stadium. The urge to jerk-off off was intense. I just had to beat my meat, just had to, but I couldn't with Bobby next to me. What shitty luck I was having. "Look at them ugly chicks swapping spit," Bobby yelled out. No one in the audience as much as turned around. "Goddamn that ain't right! What would Jesus do if he saw that?" (If that dumb asshole had only been able to see into the future he could've thrown a trademark on that one. Advertising firms could have dosed Bobby with acid and he would envision future marketing slogans). Suddenly without warning he stood up and stepped out into the aisle and hurled a milk ball as hard as he could at the two spit swappers. It shot over their heads by fifteen feet. The place was cavernous, no one even heard it hit. Or cared for that matter.

The next time he wound up like he was trying out for the Yankees, even going through the whole wind up with the kick and everything, but his throw was way over their heads. Eventually throwing the box empty, Bobby turned and ran up the aisle for more ammo. Eureka! I took the opportunity to un-zip and pull out my crank. I'm sure this was illegal but since I had noticed about everyone in the place appeared to be either beating their hogs or someone else's it must not be too well enforced. I was really getting into it when out of the corner of my eye I spied Bobby moving down the center aisle firing malted milk balls like a sub- machine gun. His hand would dip into the box, he'd fire, and then take another step down the aisle. The acid in my brain gave the milkballs the visual effect of being shout out of a bazooka along with a bright orange tracer. Very cool looking. But he was still way off the mark and I was about on mine when suddenly... "What the fuck?" someone shouted. The two transvestites were out of their seats and running up the aisle towards Bobby. Obviously he had finally hit his target. The sons of bitches were a lot bigger than they looked sitting down. They charged up the aisle looking like linebackers wearing nylons, wigs, nightclub dresses, and high heels.